Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (38 page)

It was only then that I raised my head, horror-struck by the sentence. Loss of my Queenhood, exile from Court, even banishment—these were the worst I had imagined. Not public execution.

My knees went weak, but I held my head high and walked out of the room with the greatest dignity years of practice could provide. They might take my life, but they would never find me crying over it.

And to think that wretched churchman wanted to see me afterward! I sent him packing with a well-invoked curse when he came to offer his pious consolations. Bravado can only last so long, however, and the moment Nimue stepped into the cell, I collapsed, sobbing, in her arms. She held me gently, reminded me of the Druidic teaching on death and reincarnation: “A new life, Gwen. A fresh beginning, a whole new start.”

But I was not so much worried about afterward as I was about the morrow…

“I don’t want to die,” I whimpered, clinging to her frail form. “I love this life, I love Arthur and Lance and the Round Table, too. To be burned to death in public…” A fit of shaking seized me, and the doire wrapped her cloak around me as the words tumbled out between sobs. “What if I can’t face it? What if I can’t make my feet work, or keep from screaming, or remember suddenly some little homely thing and sink down, bawling in despair before we even reach the pyre? I can’t do it, I tell you—I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can.” Her voice was normal and not that of the Mother, but with one simple phrase she called up every imperative of my life. How many times had it come down to this—moments of fear or uncertainty, times when I shied away from doing what must be done, only to have someone else give me the confidence that I needed?

“Of course you can.” She said it a second time for good measure, lifting my tearstained face and looking hard into my eyes. “Don’t forget, Gwen, I was Merlin’s protégé and I have the Sight. You will face it well, you will come through the ordeal. I know. I have seen.”

And so she poured her strength and belief into the leaky basket that held my courage. By the time she left, I was all cried out, and moderately able to face the dawn. When Enid came to spend the night praying for me, I was calm and poised. Even Gareth has found me at least coherent company this night. But still I wonder how it came to this…and where Mordred is.

The one face I did not see, either at the trial or sentencing, was his. Where did you go to, my son? Into the wildwoods to find your soul? Back to your Auntie to report on your success? Or simply away, as Lance has gone away, to be healed somewhere of the wounds life dealt you? I cannot say I wish to see you this morning, when the fire lights up the sky in bloody competition with the sun…but still I would like to know the truth of your motives.

“I think,” Gareth said suddenly, “that Mordred is deeply distressed by what has happened. He ranted a good deal against Lancelot after he read the letter—became obsessed with outrage toward the Breton. But he’s always spoken well of you, M’lady.”

I managed a faint smile, hoping Gareth was right. Perhaps Mordred’s resentment of the Breton reflected some kind of twisted loyalty to Arthur, hidden and unspoken though it might be. But the crack around the edge of the shutters was growing lighter, leaving me little time to ponder such matters. The best I could do was consign him to the Gods and know I’d done all that was in my power to give him a good childhood.

There was a mumbled exchange outside my cell, and Gareth rose when a key grated in the lock. In her corner, Enid stirred to wakefulness and hastily crossed herself as the door swung open.

Standing next to the torchbearer, looking gray and old as death, was Arthur Pendragon.

I scrambled off my pallet, startled by his visit and horrified at his condition. All thought for my own situation fled at the sight.

“Leave us,” he said in a hoarse voice, and Gareth hastily led Enid out.

We stared at each other, he no doubt as shocked at my state as I was at his. Once before I had seen him thus—hollow-eyed and gaunt-faced, frail as an old man hunched against a storm. It was back before we’d wed: standing in the moonlight on the Wrekin, the night I’d realized that our moiras were entwined. Old and haggard, beaten by a crushing weight…

I’d thought then that there was something I could say, something that would heal the anguish I beheld. But what do youngsters know of visions? It had disappeared before I understood it. Now it was here in reality; the husband I loved and admired, racked with a need to hear—or say some word of release.

“Ah, Gwen.” He spoke in a raspy whisper, and the sound went creeping around the stone walls like a mouse looking for a way out.

I moved toward him, but as I reached up to put my arms around his neck, he stepped back and took me firmly by the shoulders. By sheer force of will he brought his voice under control.

“I’ve come to give you your freedom…thought of nothing else since the verdict, really. Gawain and some of the Companions are pressing for a pardon; Nimue says it is not time for you to die; and I—my life is over without you by my side. So I have decided. I will walk out with you before the entire Court and pardon you by Royal Decree.”

“Arthur!” I gasped, shocked that he would even consider such a thing. Using the royal power to overturn the legal system he had himself worked so hard to establish was unthinkable. “You can’t do that.”

“No, lass. What I can’t do is sit by silently and let them lead you to the stake.”

Gritty-eyed and grimy, the High King of Britain and I confronted each other, my life hanging somewhere between us. To live, to laugh and love and dance again on the greensward…tears of hope and gratitude filled my eyes, and threatened to undermine the little hoard of bravery I’d collected these last hours. I stared at him, awash with tenderness and love—and the realization that everything we had lived for was about to be scattered in oblivion. Driven by the terror of such a thought, I pulled myself up to my full height and looked him levelly eye-to-eye.

“Of course you can,” I said, my voice trembling only a little at the beginning. “If I can face it, you can face it. To do anything else is to make a mockery of all your life. What else have you striven for but the rule of law, where all people, noble or not, are held accountable for their actions? The trial was fair, the jury as impartial as could be gotten under the circumstances. If you overturn their verdict, the whole of our reign will end as a sham.”

He was looking into my eyes, more open and vulnerable than I had ever before seen him.

“Gwen, without you, life would be a sham anyhow.”

The words tore at me like eagle’s claws. It broke my heart to realize that the man who had such difficulty admitting love was willing to throw the whole of his life away just to keep me alive. He was the King all Britain had prayed for during the days of the tyrants; the leader Merlin had created—by magic or otherwise; the one who was destined to keep the flickering light of civilization from being swept into darkness by the barbarians. His name, the Wizard had said, was writ in the stars, and would be remembered for all time. To this task Arthur had brought honor and wit, an appreciation of his men, a loyalty beyond question, an openness of personality and spirit that drew all to him. The dream might be the Sorcerer’s; its accomplishment was the man’s. I could not see it founder over me.

“I won’t accept,” I said curtly.

He gazed at me in silence, puzzled and hurt by my response. Thank goodness he still held me by the shoulders; a warm, protective embrace would have undone me entirely.

Tears began to fill his eyes, reflecting the things he’d never been able to say. I marshaled every scrap of resolve I had left and forced myself to smile. “It’s been a splendid time, Arthur Pendragon. And I’ve been honored to be your wife. But the needs of the people come first, no matter the personal cost. They need you, need your law, need to believe in all you’ve done. I will not deny them that.”

The muscles of his jaw tensed as though he meant to argue the point, and I rushed to head it off in a half-bullying way.

“Don’t you dare start crying, you sentimental oaf. I’ve work to do, and I’ll not have you getting the whole front of my dress sopping with tears.”

My change in tone seemed to startle him, and he let go of my shoulders as the sound of marching men came to a stop outside the cell. I stepped back and took a deep breath. “Get on with you, man. I’ve still got to fix my hair.”

The guard rapped on the door before opening it. My escort—all members of the Queen’s Men, their white shields draped with the black of mourning—waited outside.

Arthur paused a single heartbeat more, still holding my eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to say something further, so I raised my chin defiantly and gave him the thumbs up. He turned his face away, blinking, but returned the salute before bolting out the door.

Fix my hair, indeed! What silly, mundane things we cling to in the face of chaos! I’m doing well to be on my feet, swaying like a sapling and unable to move, much less worry about my hair all hanging down. Well, buck up, girl. It’s the last of your public appearances, and Nonny would never forgive you for making a botch of it.

The thought of my old nurse brought a wry smile. When Gareth came rushing to my side, I reached gratefully for the arm he extended. He started to speak, no doubt wanting to give me some word of understanding, but I interrupted, fearful that any delay would leave me unable to face my destiny.

“Don’t blame yourself,” I told him carefully. “Or let Lance fret over it. He broods too much as it is.”

Gareth murmured some response but made no effort to move. In the hallway my escorts stood as still as stone, a terrifying lethargy holding them captive.

What was it Mama told me, just before she died? Once you know what you have to do, you just do it…no matter how hard it is or how much pain you feel. It’s as simple as that, really.

Lifting the skirt of my shift with one hand, I gave Gareth’s arm a squeeze with the other and urged him forward.

Time to get on with it, while I still can. One step at a time. Eyes on the ground, looking neither to left nor right, lest you find compassion in someone’s face. Concentrate on not tripping—on what has to be done, for the people’s sake. As a Celtic queen…as part of the Royal Promise.

Chapter XXX

The Stake

The sky overhead was gray when we made our way to the Square at the heart of Carlisle. A light fog had risen off the river, blurring the edges of the buildings and swirling around us as we came into the open space.

I looked up once and saw, half-hidden in the mists and shadows, a pile of logs and branches heaped up around a stake. It was tall, like the pyres they build at Beltane.

There were ghostly figures moving in the Square, and those nearest to us parted silently to let me through. Shoes and hems, and the edges of cloaks drew away. Many of them were near the fountain…the same fountain where I’d been drawing water the first time I saw Arthur.

Thought he was a country lad, as no doubt he thought I was a scullion, standing there barefoot with the bucket slopping over. Great Gods, was it almost thirty years ago? Seems more like yesterday…

I stumbled suddenly and clutched Gareth’s arm to keep from falling. A groan rose from the phalanx of men around me, but still I didn’t look at them.

Stairs, not a ladder, leading up to the little platform. Thoughtful of them. An extra bit of work for the carpenter. If only he’d included a banister, to help me keep my balance.

Gareth was half supporting me now, guiding me across the boards to the post that rose, rough-hewn and sturdy, out of their center. I leaned back against it, grateful for its solidness, and raised my eyes to the Fair Unknown. I wished I could trust my voice enough to tell him how much I appreciated his help.

He leaned forward, as though to whisper something, but Agravain pushed him away, roughly slipping the rope around me—
a good thick rope, such as might hold a snorting bull. Or a fractious Queen, too prone to letting the words leap out unbidden.

Someone began fussing with my hair, trying to tie it back before they slipped the hood over my head.

“No need for that,” I snapped, turning to glare at the man. “At least let me look on the new day dawning.”

He paused, uncertain as to what right of authority I—an about to be dead queen—might have to give orders, and I mustered a wan smile. “I promise I won’t lay a curse on anyone, if you’ll leave it off.”

The man backed away, chastened.

As the mist began to clear, I could make out the crowd more easily: farmers and peasants, merchants and townspeople, all come early to get a good spot for seeing the spectacle. A herald with a drum was marching up and down, periodically disappearing into one of the adjacent streets, his booming instrument waking anyone who might be tempted to sleep through the event. When he came into the Square for the last time, he took up a position in front of the pyre, still beating out a steady cadence.

Across the paving stones the Smith was tending his forge, his helper making the flames leap up against the declining darkness as he clapped the bellows’ handles together. A bevy of pages stood in place, each holding a resinous torch ready to be lit and brought to my feet.

I looked hastily away, seeing for the first time the members of the Court. They were coming from one side of the Square, some anxiously peering my way, others speaking in hushed tones among themselves.

On the other side of the plaza, the Bishop stood on the steps of his church, no doubt intoning prayers for my salvation in order to ease the conscience of the sizable crowd surrounding him. They were too far away to make out their faces, but judging from the bright colors they wore, a number of them were nobles.

And Arthur?
I put the question aside with a shudder.
God help him, don’t let him watch! We have shared too many good times to leave him with a last memory of this.

Lifting my eyes to the sky, I stared at the high, small clouds that riffled toward the east like water foaming over rocks. They were beginning to hint at sunrise splendor.
Salmon it will be today, perhaps going to pink when the sun finally rises. At least it isn’t red.

Below me the drummer continued, and I thought grimly that on this day, at least, he was calling up the sun just as harpers do.

A sentry on the wall was watching for the first brilliant sliver of sun to break the horizon, and at his signal the great belling warhorns, whose call to death and duty make every warrior’s blood run hot, roared out their challenge. The ancient sound echoed away down the alleyways as the people grew hushed. Someone from the town’s Council—I did not know who—strode into the Square, signaling for attention.

In a terse, clipped voice he read the proclamation of my guilt. In spite of itself the mob let out a gasp when the man came to the sentence. “Death at the stake come dawn.”

As the first wedges of sunlight sliced between the buildings and began to stripe the Square, the fellow declared it was time.

A low, moaning chant came from the throng, throbbing in time with the renewed beat of the drum. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the motion of the boys dipping their torches into the forge-fire, then running with youthful eagerness to plunge the brands into the logs at my feet. I wanted to scream to them, to order them to go back, to ask why they were doing such a dreadful thing, but I had promised not to make a scene and was determined to hold my tongue as long as possible.

The morning breeze had risen, bringing the smell of burning pitch to my nose, making the Dragon Banner above our house flutter and unfurl. When I looked at them, the Queen’s Men seemed to waver and shift in the smoke that began to rise between us.

I looked deliberately around the Square, doubt and fear and bitterness sweeping through me.
For the good of the people? For this you gave up a life of your own, and any promise of love and personal freedom? For what? To hear their every request? To listen to their complaints? To care about the rabble who are now waiting to see you burn?

A sudden rage raced to my heart as my eyes filled with tears. I stifled a scream of denunciation and searched frantically for distraction.

The sky. Look at the sky. Forget your duty or who you’ve done it for. There is no more they can ask or you can give. Galahad knew that…sought out solitude, went among the fields, away from the throng he wanted to save. Forget the people, ignore the crowd. Hold on to the sky—the dear, wide vault of blue, arching deeper and darker here than anywhere else in the world.

High over the plain a golden eagle circled, lovely and clean in the first rays of light. The crackle of flaming twigs exploded in my ears, and the breeze wafted capriciously, sending waves of heat first from this side, then from that. I stared upward, refusing to be tethered to my panic.

Free—free as the eagle. Soon I shall soar above the valleys and fells of my own land, winging my way to the Isle of the Ever Young…and never again be born a queen!

I clung desperately to the thought, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart, the increasing heat from the flames, the storm of noise that washed over me.

Someone screamed—was it me?—and the platform beneath my feet began to shake. Perhaps the crowd had gone mad, was charging the bonfire in order to rip some poor part of me away as a souvenir, a memento of my service, my loyalty to them. Blinded by tears, I swore at this untidy ending with all the power at my command.

Suddenly my bonds loosened and the post no longer held me. I crumpled, sobbing, only to be grabbed roughly, dragged down the stairs, and thrust abruptly up onto the withers of a large horse. Someone’s arms went around me, pulling me close in against his body, and I stared up, uncomprehending, at Lancelot’s face.

Chaos was sweeping the Square—men pushing and shoving, the ring of iron on white shields, a bedlam of swearing and groaning interlaced with screams of surprise, of outrage, of deathblows raining.

Lance swung Invictus around, intent on getting away. As the animal whirled, bunched, and prepared to leap forward, I saw Gareth pause at the base of the stairs, smiling at us. Out of the smoke, a blade flashed red in the fire glow.

There was no warning. The blow caught him above his mail tunic, in the juncture of shoulder and neck, severing the jugular. A geyser of blood fountained upward, splattering Lance and me and the horse.

The moment froze in time. He did not even scream. A dreadful grimace of surprise and disbelief contorted his features as the gentlest of heroes raised his hands slowly to his face before sinking—first to his knees, then to the stones already slick with his life’s liquor.

The snorting horse reared and plunged, then raced away as I let out a wail of despair and fainted.

***

Light…brilliant, shattering light and the thunder of hoofbeats pierced my head. Dimly I knew our lives depended on the speed and endurance of the stallion, and the drumming of his hooves, hard against the paving, clattered in and out of my consciousness. I heard the sound, felt the motion, was vaguely aware of the Breton’s arms holding me firmly before him. Time and space had broken their bounds and I was tossed violently between them. Here I caught a glimpse of the present, there a flash of memory—everything and nothing tumbled in my head like leaves in a whirlwind, and I could no longer tell what was real and what was not.

The fire-bright sun lay directly ahead of us, but when I closed my eyes against the pain of it, a pall of smoke and blood engulfed me and the sight of Gareth’s death’s head rushed into view. With a strangled scream I opened my eyes, struggled to throw off the nightmare, and Lance leaned forward, his mouth barely inches from my ear.

“Don’t think,” he commanded, tightening his grip on me as I started to sob. “Don’t think about anything.”

We flew down the supply road at the base of the towering Wall. Guards were not posted at the quarter-mile towers so close to the city, and there was no one on the road, since most people had gone to Carlisle to witness their Queen’s death. We might have been fleeing across an empty world.

The stallion was growing winded as we came to the ford of a small stream, and Lance turned off into the wooded watercourse that meandered between gentle hillocks. No sooner were we hidden from sight than a pack of riders went flying past. I began to shake.

“Bors and the others,” Lance reassured me. “But I have no doubt the King’s men will be close behind.”

He dropped the reins and let Invictus pick his way slowly between the trees along the burn. When we reached the edge of a broad meadow, Lance drew the animal to a halt and helped me dismount, then spread his bedroll beneath a birch well back from the verge of the woods. He also tossed me his monk’s habit with the admonition to put it on.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” he asked when I’d complied. I shook my head uncertainly, unable to remember what had happened the night before.

“I thought not. You rest—just lie here and rest—while I take care of the horse. We’re going to need him for some days to come.”

He leaned across me to tuck the blankets closer, and I looked up at him, too tired and confused to speak. For a moment he paused and stared down at me, his eyes crinkling in a weary smile. That we were both alive and here in this sylvan glade was almost beyond believing. How we had gotten here was of no more consequence than whether this was all a dream or not.

I let myself float in the beauty of the moment, disconnected from any reality but this. Above me a red squirrel frisked in the branches, while a thrush filled the morning with glory from the higher canopy.

Lying there, safe in the dappled shade of the grove, I watched as Lance unsaddled his mount and walked him long and thoroughly around the edge of the meadow. The lea was wild, full of both grass and flowers, and there was no sign of fences or buildings within sight. We might have been the only people in the world at that moment. It was a heavenly thought.

Seen from that distance, Lance looked like any horseman caring for his steed. Although he was wearing a mail tunic, both sword and shield had been left with me. There was a bandage on one arm from the night we were trapped together, but one might still think him simply a man of the land—a farmer, probably a horse breeder. All of his attention was directed to the needs of his animal just as, when we were together, all of his attention focused on me. A good husbander, I thought softly. Definitely a man of the land.

When the stallion had cooled off, the Breton brought him back by the trees and rubbed him down with handfuls of grass.

“What he really likes is to roll after being ridden,” Lance sighed, “but as long as we’re in hiding, he’s in hiding too.”

Hiding. The word wandered slowly around my brain, devoid of meaning. Once Lance hobbled the horse and threw himself on the ground beside me, I shifted to rest my head in his lap, staring up into the leaves overhead.

“Hiding?” I murmured. “Why ever should we be in hiding? Didn’t you save my life?”

“Aye, and that with the King’s help. Arthur sent me a message before the trial, saying that if it came to the worst, he’d make sure your escort was unarmed. He begged me to save you if he could not. The Banner was our signal, and when I saw the Red Dragon flying over the house this morning, I knew he had not found a way to keep you alive. That’s why I came.”

“But if the Queen’s Men were unarmed, why was there so much fighting?” I whispered, trying to make sense out of the disjointed memories that had begun to creep back to me.